Tag Archive: free verse


Two Per Week

52 weeks in a year, 26 letters in the alphabet
… merely coincidence?

Time is money and money is naught and so
thought is time. I keep looking for a word
to rhyme.

She just didn’t happen upon circumstance
or the circumference of the happenstance.

Far from it.
Far be it for me to opine from afar. I’m
fairly sure that that of which I speak is uncertain.

Hold your tongue, I’ll hold mine
or yours if you prefer.

Oh,
how I’d
hold it

Right up front, before I begin, a preface to what
I’m about to say, a few opening remarks. But first …

I need to know,
how easy is it
to maintain that glow,
that wonderful charm,
that sense of the moon
while dancing

© Chagall ∞

Cushiony Beach Feet

I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, each a soft mallet upon the other to rub gently
Searching for the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
Amid constant pressure despite inclination toward shade
Over-anxious more than unctuous or ingratiating
A tip of the hat coincident with the wink is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba, there is where I want to be
Samba, gesticulate, a cuba libre
Leaning out over the rail of the balcony overlooking sand and surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day just before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
And so goes the body, I am the waves you hear
Of this there’s no denying
I am the song of the samba receding

© Chagall ∞

The Changing Bead

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appear like droplets of mercury
the you at the door

one stands out, lush and

the you now
appear to be smaller drops within

all is flux

begins a gradual
not the same final day

slide from the leaf

you know me then
simply changed place

there on the blades

of grass. Again, a single bead
where I’ve gone

but wonder

© Chagall 2014

Woven

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Old yellow wall phone in the kitchen
first time I smoked
a salt-water pool
she leans out the window
almost choked
smell of fries
rotary dial sound like roulette
her lashes caught fire
a dot on the water while we watched
hung clothes with it cradled at her neck
nothing like the first taste
salt and malt vinegar
assenting, rarely saying anything
Marlboro Reds
bus fumes at Port Authority
think it was Helen from next door
yellow stains
kissed her, the band shell
you too, love you
the next day I bummed another
dark ride, Palisades breezes
home

© Chagall 2014

Forever Blue Iris

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You’ve been sick before, I’m sure it’s
reverb at the altar dark and wet
seat-backs forward and trays
saved stubs of theater
blue Delphinium, perennial flowering
times to change the gauze
resonance, the sound decays at a rate
though the bag doesn’t inflate, oxygen is
especially for photos, certain
blues on the high mountains of tropical
catheters sometimes
choir voices especially altos
not even peanuts any more
mason jars of buttons
like blue dolphins, the leaves deeply lobed
they say you’ll be coming
the large cathedrals even more so
prepare for landing
butterflies pinned
hold nectar on the upper blue petals
anybody know what happened to the lady in room
sonorous, like yelling in a hallway
tipped wings, praying inside the mask
see, there she is behind your dad’s
blue flowers, late spring to summer

© Chagall 2014

Atop

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Nothing but blue
gorgeous body
the air is thin
I run my hands over
lined with trails
she resists for show
native poplars
the neck is what
eagles protect
the comforter down
look up
rhythmical
trails too narrow for two
I hold and then she
echoes

© Chagall 2014

Ricochet

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Consecutive consequences
small graves for little
goes down smooth
roads least traveled
or so she says
I never saw the sign

I’m done with you
okay to park here after
splashed the puddle all
I think it’s the next day there
just prop it with the book
no, the other aesthetic
you mean epitaph?

rusty slogans
remember her debut
old pine scent
either way you slice it
I’ve absolutely seen it
a prayer a day keeps
to the core

she comes in colors
except the
one’s self
I’ve seen beyond
antiquity
early to bed and early

funny how time flies
they all smoked L&Ms
I don’t think the windows
that’s between you and me

Mediocrity’s overrated
the year of the dog again
the majority
blew off his hand
the new 40
a walk through the park maybe
ramen again
or maybe it wasn’t

Clean shaven
ashes, dust to
o’ what a beautiful
sayonara
dime store novels – you?
just flew too close to the flame
I’m glad you bring that up
come, sit

© Chagall 2014

Free Fall

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Hasty to hesitate
decisions to remain on the fence
splinters reshape the course of things
picayune on the big picture
always the children
without them we’d ourselves be suckling
not enough antibody
doesn’t anti-matter
warm milk around the lips
dries like first grade glue on fingers
so fun to peel
collagen
the bells away, always the bells
inclinations we had about the hunches
in steep decline
regardless, joy finds towers
filled with carbines, carillon
ropes untangle, de-noose
Adam’s apples obstruct the view
to that other day when it whistled
always the whistles
if it’s 8 P.M. then it’s time
pull the string

© Chagall 2014

After 8, Relatives Only

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You can’t orient yourself in the dark, accept that. Without exception
Everything’s inclusive or nothing at all. Flip an edgeless coin
And yet, there it stands. Use your imagination if there’s a next time
You need a crutch to suppress the limp
Raggedy soul you bare from the backside of your jammies.
Bedtime stories unfold their plots like grave sites yawn say Ahh
I’ve seen worse, the better off I got. My last job
I toppled angels from pinheads and threw them over shoulders
For luck.

© Chagall 2014

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The universe births creatures
Unfolds them from the void.
Elisabeth pops towels and sheets
Clearly unwrinkled
From the dryer, driest
When cynical. Small gel tablets
Pass in four-way kiss
From under the tongue
Without the right of way.

If you can’t stand to see me this way
Then please, sit
Close your eyes, let down your hair
As I did you, more or less than you think
Therefore, philosophers say that you are
But we know better, best when shaken.

Who knew so many carats
Could assemble and still
Lack luster? My collection
Of ring fingers always points.
Just add light
Stir and arouse, but beware
Facets and edges.

Stars collapse under
Their fiction, covers ripped
Not for resale but bargain bins.
Just burn. Destiny has no children
Yet, stillborn nieces
Refuse to leave nana’s house
Fearful of starless nights.

May I call you Liz?
I prefer my satin rough
This evening clear as the day
After. My love for you
Is a gnawing sorrow
That’s near chewed through
But nothing that plaster
Can’t mend.

© Chagall 2014

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